"Stu made me go."
"I heard that's not the first time," Elliott said, "that Stu and Hannah have shacked up in A.C. Jealous, Raph?"
"Shut up, Elliott." Raphael ate a mouthful of shrimp fried rice, typed another sentence in his preliminary statement. "So, Mikey, did she make you carry her briefcase? She loves doing that shit to First Years."
"Actually," Micah said, "they made me carry a briefcase with an easel."
"I knew it! Junior associates don't go anywhere unless they're carrying somebody's fucking briefcase. And she gave you an easel, too? Jesus, that's classic." Raphael remembered the voice mail. "Wait a minute. You left me some drunk message, didn't you? Yeah, I was at the Federal Bar Council's Thanksgiving luncheon, and I thought I saw Luke Skywalker flash up on my cell. By the way, Andrew Cuomo sat at the Firm's table, dude."
"I'm Luke, huh?" Micah said. "Who're you supposed to be, Raph?"
"Han Solo, of course. Elliott is R2-D2… only shorter."
Elliott said, "Hey, what the what!"
"Han Solo, that's rich." Micah smirked, wiped his mouth. "I wasn't drunk when I called you."
"Yeah you were. And I could barely hear what you were saying with all the fucking slots and music and shit in the background. Why'd you call?"
The kid looked up from his take-out box, serious look on his face. "I called because I saw Carlos Mavros at the casino."
"No way." Raphael shook his head.
"I swear, he was wearing a baseball cap and shades playing in a High Limits room with a bodyguard."
"Yeah right," Raphael said. "How many drinks did you have, dude?"
"Just one. I wasn't drunk, I swear."
"First of all," Raphael shifted into litigator mode, "you were definitely buzzed. I still have the message on my cell phone, and you were slurring and your redneck accent is thicker when you've had a few. Second of all, if the guy's wearing sunglasses and a hat, there's no way you could I.D. him. Third, even if it was him, which it wasn't, who cares if he's playing cards? Is that a sin where you come from, Mikey?"
"No." Micah shook his head, put down his Szechuan lobster. "I just didn't picture a guy with a charity at a casino. Didn't you say there were some rumors he had gambling debts?"
"Huh?" Raphael heard the kid's voice repeating the question, but something strange began happening with his computer. He fixated on his brief on the screen. His fingers were typing, keys clicking, but no letters were appearing. The screen was frozen, liquid text inert, no mouse pointer. Nothing. Raphael shouted, "Fuck!" and hammered the monitor with his palm.
"Oh yeah, that'll fix it," Micah said.
"What happened, Raphael?"
"I was just typing a preliminary statement. I always do that last and now my forty-page brief just disappeared. I haven't saved in hours. Fuck me."
Micah came around the desk, patted Raphael's shoulder. "Let me take a look."
"I'm calling the tech geeks, Mike. You don't even have computers in Kentucky."
Raphael knocked over his Mandarin steak, punched an extension on his phone.
Micah gently guided him out of his chair, began typing on the keyboard. "I worked as a consultant at the computer lab in law school," he said between keystrokes, "so just shut the hell up for a minute."
On speakerphone, a tech support expert said, "P.C. Support, can I help you?"
Raphael said, "I don't know, can you? My file just vanished and everything's frozen like a popsicle. Can you fix me, Waldo?"
Elliott laughed, choked on a piece of egg roll.
"Hmm," the tech expert's voice said, "did you save a back-up?"
"Would I call you if I did?"
"Hmmm," the tech expert's voice said, paused, "just turn your computer off and on again. It'll reboot and unlock itself."
"But then I'll lose my document."
"That's possible . . . you still have to reboot or the-"
"Thanks." Raphael hung up. "Asshole!" He looked at his watch, 9:00 p.m., and thought about rewriting the forty-page brief over the next twelve hours. He'd never make the 9:00 a.m. deadline for the client. No way. He slumped into a guest chair. "Maybe I should just take a stapler and bash myself in the face with it. Say I fell and call in sick. No. I ordered Chinese food and got Anthrax or SARS. SARS, yeah, that's better. I have to be quarantined. I'm the associate boy in the bubble."
"Raph, relax. You look like you're having a coronary. Look." Micah smiled, after a few more keystrokes, stood up from Raphael's chair. "Pulled up a back-up file. You're good."
"Holy shit!" Raphael wrestled him into a bear hug. His mind began to churn. "Can you do shit like hack into the system? Or get into Hannah's billables? I mean, if you wanted to?"
"Why?" Micah cocked his head. "What're you thinking about, Raph?"
"Not a good idea," Elliott said. "The Employee Handbook says-"
"Shut up, Needledick. I was just asking Mikey." Raphael imagined the possibilities with the kid's computer skills until his phone started ringing again. He looked at caller I.D.
Gabe Weiss was calling.
$ $ $
"I feel like I gained about five pounds." Gabe Weiss said, leaning back in his swivel chair, fingering the keys of an old trumpet on his lap. "You two have enough turkey this weekend?"
Raphael and Micah both said, "Yes," from the armchairs facing Gabe's long glass desk.
"Good. It's nice to see my troops back from R & R and already working late on a Monday night. You two have been doing nice work on the Mavros case and I want us to stay focused on it before we foray into battle." Gabe kept talking, kicked his feet onto his desk. Raphael focused on the partner's shoes. They were always immaculately polished. There was an old black man that the Firm had hired, looked like Scatman Crothers, and every day he'd knock on each office door, floor by floor, and ask, "Shine?" Gabe had told Raphael that he felt sorry for the guy, as old as he was, carrying around a box of rags, smelling like shoe polish, making a few bucks at the feet of shysters. So Gabe got his shoes shined every day, gave the man a big tip.
Gabe was saying, "We got the affidavits of service, and the tabloid's counsel already answered and served discovery requests. Fairly impressive. The lawyer for the women, on the other hand, called me up and asked for an extension. He wants three weeks. I think he's going to move to dismiss the complaint."
"Are we giving him the extension?" Raphael asked, hoping the answer was "no."
Gabe nodded, looked at Micah. "Generally, Micah, there are two rules we abide by here. The first is we never ask for extensions ourselves. We shouldn't need them and it makes us look weak if we have to ask a favor. Second rule is if the other side asks for an extension, we always give them at least one. Why? Because you never know when we might need a favor in return." Gabe turned to Raphael. "Now, I know what you're thinking, Raphael. This shyster for the women doesn't deserve an extension, he's lower than pond scum, especially if he's moving to dismiss our complaint. But I'm gonna give him one anyway. If I didn't, he'd ask the judge, and we'd look bad out of the box, capisce?"
Raphael nodded. Vader was right, and, if he were wrong, Raphael wouldn't disagree anyway.
"So before we get his motion," Gabe said, "I want to get ahead of the game against the tabloid. Carlos is going to Mexico for a few weeks to do some work at an orphanage there. I went over the tabloid's document requests with him and his staff is gonna send us a copy of his office files that might be relevant."
Micah asked, "Can I get a copy of the requests and the tabloid's answer?"
Raphael gently kicked the kid's chair, gave him a look to keep quiet.
Gabe smiled. "Patience. Raphael will email them to you. When we get the client's files, Mike, you're in charge of the document review. Get a small case room, keep it locked."
"Yes, sir."
"Raph, I want you to draft objections to the document requests." Gabe pulled his feet off the desk, sat up in his chair, and reached into his shirt pocket. He examined a note, handed it to Raphael. "And I want you to call this guy, Kezn
erik, he's a private investigator. We already got a lot of background from the D.A.'s office, but I want to retain Keznerik to dig up some dirt on these women and their former shyster. I want their immigration status, criminal records, civil cases they were party to, jobs they were fired from, everything down to their first blowjob."
Raphael laughed. "Got it. You want me to do a F.O.I.L. request, too?"
Gabe held the trumpet, mulled it over. "Not a bad idea." He looked over at Micah. "You know what we're talking about, Mike?"
"Not really, sir."
"Freedom of Information Law. We'll make a formal request for the disclosure of any police records on the false claims of sexual assault against the client. Might have something we can use in our defamation case, like maybe the tabloid should've known the women were lying."
Micah said, "I found a part of a police report on line a few weeks ago."
"You did?" Gabe glanced at Raphael, turned back to the kid. "How'd you do that?"
Raphael knew that look before. Why didn't he tell Gabe about it?
"I spent a lot of time at first trying to find out if Carlos was a public figure and ran across something called a 'follow-up report' posted on the web. About the assault."
"Alleged assault." Gabe bared his canine teeth, smiling. "What did it say?"
"Basically that the women were in a bad way, and Carlos took them in at One Love For All, his shelter. Course, they blacked out half the thing but I sort of figured it out. The women stayed in the dorm room in the basement, said he gave them counseling and tried to help them find jobs at first. But then he started offering them wine. Said it was holy water. Then he started counseling them in the dorm room instead of his office."
"Uh-oh." Raphael leaned forward in his chair, intrigued by the details.
"They said he told them about a friend of his who was a talent agent or something. He started taking photos to see if they could be models. They said it ended up with them getting very drunk and Mavros taking nude pictures. One of them said she passed out, woke up naked in one of the big bedrooms in the shelter, which was supposed to be for single mothers. She said Carlos was in another room when she woke up. She said he was very nice and acted like nothing happened, but she was 'sure' they had sex."
"Well, that explains why the tabloid's document requests asked for Carlos' computer files, appointment books, and any photos of the women." Gabe's blue eyes fixed on the kid. "What was the date of the report you saw?"
"I don't remember exactly, but I'm pretty sure about a week after the supposed assault because there was a comment on the report about not being able to do a 'rape kit.' Too many days after. It also said something about the police thinking the women weren't credible waiting so long and that it may be an extortion angle."
"That's excellent for us." Gabe raised his chin at Raphael. "You agree?"
"Yeah." Raphael nodded.
"Print a copy of that report for me."
"Yes, sir," Micah said.
"Good work." Gabe picked up his trumpet again, played with the corroded valves. "After we pull this off and clear Carlos's name, I'll buy you two dinner at Peter Luger's. This should be your number one case. Capisce?"
They both said, "Yes."
"As you were, gentlemen."
Raphael followed Micah out of the partner's office.
In the hallway, Raphael patted the kid's back, murmured, "Good job, Mikey. But you should've told me about that doc you found. Try not to make me look bad again in front of Vader."
16 Thursday
* * *
Gabe had forgotten his I.D. card, but the security guards let him pass through the gate and into the elevator, no questions asked. On the fiftieth floor, Gabe rushed down the hall toward the black nimbus cloud of hair above Cherise's cubicle. She wore a telephone headset, and her mouth was moving excitedly while her fingers glided across the keyboard at ninety words per minute. She could chew gum, walk, talk, and listen to Dictaphone tapes at the same time.
"Girl, can you believe that Hannah wants her own secretary now?" Cherise nodded emphatically. "Mm-hmm. Miss thang thinks she's already a partner. I got news for her."
Gabe rapped the top of her computer monitor, drew his hand across his neck.
"Oh, hold on," Cherise said, ignoring his signal to cut the conversation. "Good morning. I got your tuxedo from the cleaners. It's in your office."
"Tuxedo?" Gabe didn't make the connection. All he could think about was Sarah's car, what was inside the trunk. "What are you talking about?"
"For the Firm's anniversary party tomorrow night?" Cherise's mouth made a wrinkled W. She gave him a look like he was walking around naked. "You can't go dressed like that."
"Look, I'm in no mood for jokes. Is Sarah … did you get in touch with her?"
"Your daughter wasn't picking up. I called and left a message."
"A message?" Gabe felt his head throb as if it would burst. "Cherise, I didn't say leave a message. I said 'keep calling her until you get her.' Now get off the phone with your personal calls and call Sarah."
He stormed past her cubicle into his office. He ransacked his desk, searching for the one thing he needed more than air right now. He pulled the bottle from his drawer and leaned sideways to see if Cherise was doing what he'd asked. She spun in her chair, her eyes cowering away from Gabe's, but clearly seeing the thing in his hand. He put the bottle on his desk, walked toward her, and she quickly turned back around and mumbled into her headset.
"Oh my God. Back at it again. I have to go, girl." Cherise cocked her head, her eyes flashing at him sideways. "I'm calling Sarah now!"
He slammed the door to his office, sat down, and examined the heavy brown bottle. It was a gift from a Japanese client thanking Gabe for successfully thwarting an S.E.C. investigation. He remembered the look on everyone's face when the Japanese suit had presented the expensive bottle and politely bowed. Max Goldberg raised his bushy eyebrows, gave the client a rueful pat on the back. The two associates in the room looked at each other. Cherise had even offered to put the bottle away for Gabe. The Japanese man's smile slowly turned into a befuddled mask of comedy. How was he supposed to have known?
Gabe had thanked the client profusely and stowed the single malt away in a locked drawer of his desk, telling everyone that he would save it for a very special occasion, "maybe for when I retire," but knowing that he would need it someday like fire needs wind. It must have been older than Sarah by now, which meant it also must have tasted sweeter than nectar. Gabe licked his lips, set the bottle down between his legs. He twisted the cap off and held the mouth of the bottle in front of his own. The scent was enough to make him salivate. He tilted the bottle up with trembling hands, the first time in a dozen years. The liquid soaked his tongue, singed his throat just like he remembered. He felt the warm sensation swim down through him.
"Gabe?" Cherise's voice clamored through the door.
He stole another gulp, held the bottle under the desk. "It's open."
She cracked the door. "Gabe, I forgot to tell you that the litigation meeting is still on and they want you there. Max said it was the weekly billables."
"All right. Hey, Cherise, listen I'm sorry about before. I'll explain later."
"You think after this many years I'm not used to your little tantrums? Puhlease."
Gabe smiled, nodding his chin to shoo her out.
"I'm gonna try calling Sarah again," Cherise said.
"Okay, thanks."
He watched her, and she watched him. They both knew in that awkward split second, but he still waited until after she closed the door. At least he had the decency to steal another swallow in secret, then lock it away again next to the thumb drive. The video he should have watched a long time ago.
$ $ $
On the top floor, there was a large ceremonial conference room that only the litigation partners were allowed to use. They called it "the Counting Room." It had a long slick table, a few dozen high back chairs, oil portraits of the late great
Sullivan & Adler partners, a TV projection screen that descended from the ceiling, and a towering view of Manhattan and the Hudson River. But the Counting Room was seldom used, always locked and empty, except on Thursday mornings. Every Thursday at 10:00 a.m. sharp, conference services wheeled in a full breakfast buffet of deviled eggs, waffles, cream cheese bagels, fresh juice, and, of course, steaming black coffee. The litigation partners counted two things in the room: their young associates' billable hours and their cut of money brought in by rainmaking.
Partners in the Counting Room came in two flavors. Most were backroom workhorses happy to do all of the work that rainmakers brought in. Rainmakers were far fewer in number, and they usually did little litigating themselves. They brought in plenty of new cases by socializing with the New York wealthy and elite, spending their time at ritzy galas and tedious legal seminars and Fortune 500 luncheons, schmoozing unabashedly and trading pathetic jokes and setting up tee times with in-house counsel and CEOs who could hire S & A's legal juggernaut to lay waste to their corporate enemies.
Gabe Weiss was the atypical rainmaker. He brought in clients through his blunt demeanor and hard-nosed reputation. He wasn't the unctuous salesman, not by a long shot. He was the bowlegged quarterback with the broken nose that everyone wanted to follow into the end zone. But he was also the driven perfectionist who stayed at the Firm longer than anyone else, doing work that could have been done by underlings, never lamenting the fact that everyone went home earlier than he did.
Gabe disliked the Counting Room and the Thursday morning litigation partners' brunch. It was back-slapping and bean counting and finger-pointing and scrutinizing young associates' billable hours like thought police. The partners would henpeck each other over trivial shit that Gabe couldn't care less about. Who brought that client in? Why is so-and-so hoarding the bright associates? How come those damn Horvath WASPs won that Beauty Pageant and we didn't? When is that lazy associate gonna bill more than forty hours a week? How come we have to give the secretaries so many damn vacation days?
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